Sparks
by Fierceawakening
Summary: Another old one, written for an old RP partner. There's an uneasy truce, and Megatron and Optimus are lovers. Megatron returns to the Decepticon base after a long time away, and rediscovers a trinket he took from his rival. M for some sexual content.


**A/N: This was written for an old RP partner. The truce comes from that RP. Optimus's facial scar is a detail we took from a favorite piece of fanart: Beyond His Battlemask by Mmmmmr on DeviantArt. If you want to know what happened to Starscream, that's in Dissolution.**

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Megatron's optics scanned the dim room. As far as he knew, only Soundwave knew the location of his private quarters, but it wasn't wise to take any chances. And he had been gone for some time now: the many days it had taken his enemies to repair him, and the days after that he had spent -

He shook his head. Now that he was back between these walls, he found it slightly embarrassing to remember exactly what had happened behind enemy lines. Regardless of how amusing it had been to seduce an archenemy stupid enough to rescue him after nearly killing him.

The room remained in meticulous order, as he'd always left it. That most likely meant no one had managed to foil his security systems. If Starscream, in particular, had ever managed to hack his way in here, doubtless it would be covered in pictures of the vain little fool, and slogans proclaiming the wisdom of his new leadership, and -

He felt a chill through his spark, thinking of it now. What he'd just done to Starscream -

But he had no time to dwell on that now, either. The Seeker had known it was coming, and if he had ever tricked himself into believing it would not, that was hardly Megatron's problem.

Besides, if Megatron wanted companionship, he would not want for it now. At least, not for as long as his enemy believed in the truce he'd promised. An end to open hostilities. He laughed softly. _Only because sometimes hidden ones work better._

_Then again,_ he thought, his fingers moving over the wall, their sensitive tips catching in a hidden groove and pulling gently, _Optimus Prime is no fool. _His archenemy was naïve, yes, but he was far from stupid. He had agreed to an end to hostility because he'd craved it from the beginning, but he wouldn't be foolish enough not to realize his old enemy had something more in mind than simply settling down.

The hidden compartment slid open, the object inside flooding the dim room with light. Megatron hastily narrowed the aperture of his optics, the brightness stinging them.

He carefully lifted it free. It was warm, as warm as it had been on the day he'd wrenched it free from his enemy's frame, and it glowed with the same light.

Megatron would have known that it had belonged to Optimus even if he hadn't taken it from the Autobot leader himself. There was something - an energy signature? A color, swirling in the center of the bright sphere? A smell? A feeling, something about the heat in the metal sides he held? - that told him who it had belonged to. He didn't know what told him so, but his spark, oblivious to his own ignorance, whirled faster in his chest as he held it.

That was another thing. He'd never expected to desire his enemy. Those first times the other mech had touched him, running his fingers over scratches and scars from the battle that had laid him low, he'd felt revulsion.

And yet, when Optimus had drawn back his battlemask and he'd seen the marks of their own long war on his enemy's face, he'd felt - what?

Recognition. He had done it, had been the one to set the young mech who had leapt at him in rage and disillusionment on the long path toward his destiny.

And that young mech had borne his mark every moment since. Even through his ascension, the impressive metamorphosis that made a young dock worker into the greatest of the Primes, his mark had remained there, indelible and eternal.

It was that, he guessed, that had stirred his desire in the end. The Autobot bore his mark, and therefore was his: a lost possession, to be lured and seduced and recaptured.

A sudden heat flaring through his chest as his spark spun faster. Doing so had proven far more entertaining than he thought it would be. Though it hadn't proven wholly successful.

He chuckled. This truce, whatever his counterpart suspected, would give him plenty of time to remedy -

His head jerked as he looked down at the Matrix in his hands. Not all of the warmth he was feeling now came from his spark chamber.

And despite his optics letting in as little light as they could, looking down at the Matrix hurt again, all of a sudden, as it flared with light, flooding the room, so bright he staggered and nearly dropped the artifact he held.

###

Light filled his vision. It was so bright he could hardly see a thing and he raised his dark hands to cover optics that refused to shutter. A sound, too high to be melodic, filled his audio receptors.

He shook his head to clear it. Was that - chanting?

And where was he, anyway? Logic told him one of two things: either he was malfunctioning quite impressively, or this must be some kind of dream.

The first was quite possible. If someone had come in this room while he was gone, there was always the possibility that mech had left him a nasty surprise.

But why so elaborate a trap? If someone had gotten the better of him, why not just attempt to offline him or deactivate his frame or... anything less elaborate than this irritating and completely unnecessary illusion?

That left the other possibility: that he was dreaming.

He rarely dreamed, and he'd certainly never dreamed of anything this strange. Of battle, perhaps, or conquests, whether great or small, galactic or personal. Of his life before this war, and of what might happen after it. But never of anything so -

It was chanting, he realized, his audios more able to focus now. Chanting in a language he recognized, though the sound was still distorted, as though he were hearing it through a glitchy comm link. Most of it, he couldn't decipher.

Worse, the strangeness of the dialect made even the words he did hear clearly difficult to understand. The voices chanted in an ancient, formal version of the language, one even Autobots rarely used. Most Decepticons had never even heard it. He only knew what little he did of the dialect because he'd had so long to study his enemy.

He wondered at it all. Why should he be "here," wherever "here" was, listening to voices chant in a language even the Autobots were forgetting?

He sat up and looked carefully around. The light still hurt, but now he could at least see something other than the brightness that had burned him. And he was nothing if not used to pain.

He saw patterns in the colors' dance now, glyphs appearing and then vanishing. Like the voices, their shapes were distorted, taunting him with promises of their meaning.

More than that, though, he saw figures: ghostly forms appearing in front of him. Had they always been here, or were they simply revealing themselves to him now? Rising to his feet, he watched them. Were they the ones chanting? He couldn't see their lips move.

Their optics glittered blue. With a sudden thrill of recognition, he looked down at his hands and saw that they were empty.

_I was holding the Matrix before._

He smiled grimly as he looked up again, recognizing the faces arrayed around him. All were Primes; all were dead. _So that explains where I am. I'm... inside the Matrix._

But how could that be? The Matrix was sacred to his enemies, a collection of the wisdom of their leaders throughout the ages. It revealed, to those worthy of it, a trove of data collected by those leaders as they ruled: advice, information, and memories.

The Autobots had a particular reverence for such things. His lip curled in disdain. It was one thing to study history and take what lessons one could from the past. It was another to believe that power came from building only on what others had done before you.

Sometimes power arose from understanding the past, yes. But sometimes, power meant razing what others had created to the ground and carving a new order from the ashes.

That had been his purpose, before this war had taken him to a far-off world and locked him in an endless conflict with one mech and his band of followers: to uproot this dynasty, to rend everything it created, and to allow those who had suffered so that it could have its splendors to rule.

Its splendors... including this little trinket, this repository of wisdom on which, so it was said, their great society was built. Those of a mystical bent said it held more than simply data collected by the rulers of old. They whispered of a link to the very sparks of the departed ones and a means to communicate with them even after their sparks had returned to the Well from which all Cybertronian life came.

As much as Megatron hated to admit it, apparently those superstitious fools were right. Unless Autobots through the ages had been particularly fond of fancying up a datatrack until it felt like a séance.

And that still didn't explain what he was doing here. He led the worst enemies they'd had in vorns. He had personally killed two of them, and tried many times to kill another. Surely the datatrack so sacred to them that only their leader could access it would be protected both by elaborate systems to prevent anyone other than its rightful holder to access it. And even if anyone else did, surely the data itself would also be protected by powerful encryption, not something just anyone could -

_Encryption._ Perhaps that explained why he couldn't understand them or read their writing. Still, why not completely obscure it? And why allow him into their sanctum sanctorum in the first place? It made no sense.

The assemblage of - spirits? Sparks? Images? around him bowed, an elaborate gesture. It was another impossibly ancient formality: a bow reserved for visiting dignitaries from other worlds.

Megatron's optics widened in genuine surprise, and he flinched as more light flooded into them. The enemies he'd sworn to dismantle were bowing to him as if they considered him an equal?

Most of them, anyway. One hung back, his azure optics flaring with indignation. He chuckled. _Sentinel Prime._

The orange mech's reaction relieved him immeasurably. Megatron had killed Sentinel, vorns ago in the early days of his uprising. He had not been gentle. He did not hate Sentinel any less, seeing him now - but neither did he begrudge the Prime his hatred. Megatron had seized control of the territories he watched over, conquered them, and begun his war from the city he'd stolen from Sentinel.

He understood the hard glint in the Prime's optics. It was, he reflected, the first thing he'd understood since he'd arrived here.

Still, even with the frustrating encryption, if this was real it provided an opportunity for intelligence he would never get again. He returned their gesture, hoping it would hide the sound of his recording devices whirring to life.

They spoke to one another, looking at him. As before, he could only catch a few words. "Enemy" from an angry Sentinel. "Welcome" from another, who shrugged and stared at Sentinel until he withdrew, cycling air sharply through his vents. He hissed, hearing one of them say his own name, mangled by the accent and further distorted by the odd encryption.

His dark hand clenched, his optics flaring as he regarded the one who had addressed him. This was a welcome?

They had dragged him here, into their bright little world that stung his optics, making their high sounds that shrilled in his audio receptors, and then had the temerity to bow to him like they respected him. But not even having the decency to pronounce his name properly was worse. Surely they had no need to encrypt that!

He stared impatiently at the shimmering walls. This was getting him nowhere. He wouldn't be able to decode their speech until he could study his recordings, and from what little he could tell they were apparently just arguing about his presence there in the first place anyway.

His right arm twitched. He doubted even his cannon could do much damage. They'd simply send him back where he came from once they knew he intended to damage their precious datatrack. Still, if he caught them by surprise, perhaps he could blast or tear through a few of the glyphs before they got wise.

_All apologies, Prime - Optimus,_ he thought, smirking and raising his arm.

A sudden force against his arm stopped him. A new light flashed in front of him, searing his optics. He raised his other hand to block out the painful brightness.

"Send me back, then," he snarled. "Whatever it is you want, I'm not interested in staying."

A flash of light as the thing - a mech? - shook its head. Its - arm? - held his arm down effortlessly, and he realized that so long as it held him he would not even be able to charge his cannon.

Or to move. No matter how he twisted away, the thing not only maintained its grip on his arm, but also blocked his way. Somehow, it was everywhere.

_At least the fools have defenses._

He raised his head to stare at the device impeding his movement. The light still burned, but as he stared, he began to make out a familiar form. Very familiar, as it turned out.

"Optimus?" he stammered.

The thing nodded.

_How can this be?_ he thought. This thing didn't even look like the others gathered around. It was barely visible at all, the light that shaped it flashing and disappearing and reappearing.

"Me - ga - tron," it said, exaggerating the syllables so that he could hear them clearly. It pronounced them differently than the others had as well, struggling to mimic a proper Decepticon accent.

"So you're the one who brought me here, then." Megatron chuckled in spite of himself, feeling his spark swirl in recognition. "Only you would do something like that."

It nodded again and spoke. Seeing the Decepticon's optics narrow in confusion at its words despite its attempt at his dialect, it sighed and shrugged an apology.

"But what are you?" Megatron moved his arm, testing his strength against it again. His arm still would not budge. "These others are dead. The legends -" his lip twisted in distaste - "say that the Matrix is the resting place of the sparks of Cybertronian, and later Autobot, leaders. But I left Optimus Prime at his base just days ago."

The crimson optics flashed. "Which means he is alive. The only thing in the galaxy that could ever destroy him... is me."

The light dispersed and reformed in a quavering pattern, and Megatron realized it was laughing. He snarled again.

"Pieces," it said, shaking its head.

It tried several words, the only one of which Megatron understood was one meaning something like "link" or "connection."

"The Matrix's bearers are... connected to it, then? Even after -" he hesitated. Many would say "even after returning to the Well of All Sparks." The Decepticon leader, however, was not at all sure he believed it existed.

The Optimus-thing repeated the word it had spoken before. "Connection," it said, and something with the word "memories" in it, and "information."

Sentinel Prime growled a warning. The chanting surrounding them all grew suddenly discordant. The image of Optimus turned - though Megatron swore he could also still see its azure optics staring directly at him, as well - and said something in the other dialect, rapidly and loudly.

Megatron ignored their squabble. "Then if I understand you properly, that must be what you are," he mused, stroking his chin. "A part of Optimus Prime's spark, imprinted here when the Matrix chose him."

It nodded.

Megatron smiled, pleased. _Then as long as I hold the Matrix, a part of you is truly mine._

"And when you die?" He indicated the others gathered just beyond them. "The link deepens, and you become like them?"

It shook its head. "No. More... information."

Megatron nodded. He didn't quite understand, but he didn't need to, either.

His spark lurched in his chest. How long had it been since he and Optimus had spark-merged, that last morning in his enemies' base?

_Too long,_ he chuckled, remembering. The ever-insatiable Starscream had entirely spoiled him for waiting.

And now, here in front of him, was - not his partner, no, but a part of him. A part he could make use of, with enough ingenuity.

Oh, he couldn't do things the way he normally would with a creature like this one. It was merely a sliver of the energy that made up his lover's spark. There was no frame there to hurl his heat into, to capture and hold the swirling beam of energy he sent into it and return it, charged with his own energies. Spark-merging as he knew it with this thing would be impossible.

Though it would be a terribly amusing affront to the others gathered around, if they were to do something.

He smirked again. Apparently Starscream's attitude was rubbing off on him, now that the Seeker wasn't around.

_Still_, he thought, feeling his circuits heat as they warmed to his developing plan. _It would prove highly entertaining._

He cracked his chest plates open, just enough for the other to see the white light of his spark peeking out from the parted seam.

It looked at him, its optics narrowing in confusion or suspicion. He wished that it would retract its battlemask so that he could tell which. He reached up to touch the space where its mask would have been, had it been solid. He felt only heat under his fingertips.

"I cannot merge with you," he answered. "But, if I am not mistaken, you can merge with me. I can hold your energy, just as I would during a spark-merge, and give you back to the one you came from. I intend to summon him already. You know this, if you are part of him."

"Don't know," it said, a tremor in its voice. _Distortion? _Megatron wondered. _Or desire?_

"You don't know what he is thinking?"

It sighed heavily, its ghostly hand reaching toward the light coming from the warlord's chest. "Feelings, only," it said.

Megatron slid his chest plates open further. The others behind him gasped, their music a symphony of angry sounds. He smiled, hearing the apparition in front of him keen as it reached for him.

"Then tell me... what is he feeling?"

The image in front of Megatron wavered. Apparently it hadn't planned on being asked about its source's emotions.

"Lonely," it said finally.

"Then come here," he murmured, gasping as his chest plates slid fully open, thrilling to the thought not only of feeling his lover's energies again but also to the knowledge that he was moments away from plucking something right out of his enemies' most sacred relic and keeping it within himself.

It shifted again, rising, collecting itself, becoming a beam of light.

Then there was a sound, jarring and metallic.

"No," it said. "You... not here... for this."

Megatron gritted his dental plates. This thing would not deny him. Not now. "Then tell me," he hissed at it, his spark now swirling as intensely with rage as with desire, "why did you bring me here, if not because you wanted me?"

"Tell... you..." it grunted, twitching as it fought to hold itself back. Tendrils lanced from Megatron's spark, reaching for it, almost close enough to touch.

"Tell... you..." it tried again."Give it back."

Megatron threw back his head and howled with laughter.

"You brought me all this way... simply to tell me to give the Matrix back to you?"

"Not... yours..." it hissed, shuddering violently as one of the tendrils connected with it. Megatron shivered as well, pleasure lancing through his circuits.

Bright light filled the warlord's vision, and a sudden, piercing stream of song. _I've frightened them, _he thought. _They're terrified. Because he's giving in._

He opened his mouth to answer, heat crackling through his circuits, through his spark, through the other as they connected.

Then the light swallowed him up.

###

He awoke in the dark. There was a light in his hands, and he focused on it, unable otherwise to get his bearings in the dark room.

His chest, too, was open, his spark still swirling its need. Had he succeeded in capturing the other before the assembly had sent him away? He wasn't sure. He didn't feel different. Which likely meant he wasn't carrying anything beyond himself. Still, his spark whirled, drunk on its own energy, remembered - or new? - pleasure making him shiver.

It hardly mattered. He slid his chest plates closed, his crimson optics shining in the darkness.

"Not mine?" he murmured into the silent room. "Oh, I don't think so." He ran his hands over the metal on the Matrix's sides, then held his fingertips just above its bright heat.

"I think it is," he smirked, lowering it back into the hidden compartment and listening, in satisfaction, to the mechanism as it slid closed again.


End file.
